…When
the norther came into the valley from the blue hills, she knew that it
was he, who thought of her. She had never been over those hills, and it
was only the wind, which brought her from unknown distances different smells
and sounds: either the juniper's harsh aroma and grasshoppers' crepitation
at midday, or the cuckoo's sklent voice in the sonorous forest, a chiffon
rustle of quivering dragonflies on a shiny clearing, or a kittling smell
of dust from roads she had neither walked, nor ridden… And one day, a pissabed's
white fuzz came down to her shoulder, though in their valley, all dandelions
were still yellowing on the kelly green meadows.

…There
would be no meetings any more, –
she knew it for certain, but she also knew for sure that he would never
forget her, and that the wind would keep coming from the blue northern
hills again and again for all her long life.